


One For Luck

by greywash



Series: The Marriage Plot [6]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Anger, Asymmetrical relationships, Background Mental Health Issues, Drinking, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Failure to Communicate, Foreplay, Friend Jealousy, Friendship, Jealousy, Kissing, Kissing for an audience, M/M, Multi, Orgy adjacent, Public Sex, Queer Friendship, Second Time, See Story Notes for Warnings, Yeah this is definitely a problem that someone can solve with their genitals, birthday kisses, dares, one-upmanship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 22:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: "You know," Margo says. "Back when Eliotwasn'tm—iddle-aged and boring, I used to hook him up, on his birthday."[Or: for Quentin's extra-special-est birthday present, Eliot lies back between his legs and makes out with everyone while Margo directs: what could possibly go wrong?]





	One For Luck

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of _[The Marriage Plot](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1208865)_ —I believe we are down to one more short that'll get posted before the main story, and then one after—but _un_ like many of the mini-ficlets in this series, I don't think this one stands alone (it relies pretty heavily on/feeds into the evolution of the Quentin&Margo&Eliot dynamics in all of "Firebird," "Spell," and "Buyback"). This takes place in July of 2018, a couple weeks before "Buyback," and a few months after "Spell." I've been being a little vague about the timeline on this series (and dates may seem like they don't add up) because of Fillory vs. Earth timeline hijinx; there's an in-universe but thus far off-screen Event™ in late May 2018 that links the length of the Fillorian day to the length of a day on Earth, for Magic and also Story Reasons, but because it doesn't happen until May, Earth time, and since people are going back and forth to Fillory in the meanwhile, longer has passed since the end of "Firebird" for Eliot than for Quentin, and longer for Margo than for either of them. 
> 
> **Warning for consent issues**. I keep my warning policy in my [AO3 profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile#warnings) and am always willing to answer private DW messages or [emails](mailto:greywash@gmail.com) asking for elaboration or clarification on my warnings for a particular story.
> 
> Very many thank-yous to **breathedout** , as always, for the lightning-fast beta and extensive pre- and during-writing consultations.

By half past ten, Quentin is slumped back in what is—whatever the Fillorians call it, Honored Seat of Glory her ass—pretty unquestionably a glorified bean-bag chair, because he's a loser and no fun. On top of that, his flower crown is lopsided and half his garlands are crushed, so he looks like an idiot, even with Eliot lying back much more stylishly between his knees. Eliot's got his head dropped back against Quentin's chest, looking purry, half-turned on, half-asleep; and neither of them are— _doing_ anything—

"Ugh, you guys _suck_ , now," Margo says, flopping down on the glorified bean-bag chair opposite them, all her skirts sprawling out around her. "Q. _Quentin_." She raises her glass. "It's your _birthday_. And we're celebrating on your _actual birthday_ , even—how can you guys _possibly_ be this boring? You're twenty-five, not ninety."

"Actually—I'm probably more like twenty-seven, I think?" Quentin pets Eliot's hair back off his forehead, adding, "and I have no idea when my birthday is anymore," while Eliot hums, arching up under Quentin's palms. "We kept picking up months, remember?"

"Ugh, _unfortunately_ ," Margo mutters, since for most of them Fillory'd been a total garbage fire that was also her problem, for some reason. She eyes Eliot, who squints back at her, half-smiling. "This is completely unfair," she tells them, "you're all—middle-aged and boring and— _married_ , and no one here is any— _Fen_ ," she sits up—as straight as she can, grabbing Fen's hand: "Fen, explain to them."

"What'm I explaining?" Fen asks, wobbling a little, so Margo squeezes her hand.

"That they're boring," Margo explains; so Fen turns to Eliot, who's sitting forward, now, looking about a thousand percent more awake, and says, "You're boring."

"And middle-aged," Margo adds.

"What's middle-aged?" Fen asks.

"Well on their way on the long slow march to death," Margo tells her, "and _boring_ ": so Fen turns to Eliot and Quentin and says, "You're middle-aged."

"And _married_ ," Margo adds, straightening up; but Fen looks back at her and says, "They're not married," very low, and very flat.

Quentin clears his throat. "No," he says, "we're not married. Margo, do you need some water?"

"Fuck you, I am not that drunk, asshole," Margo says, nettled, and then straightens up. Eliot's not looking at her. "Okay," she sighs, " _got_ it. Ix-nay on the whatever, but _seriously_ —are you guys just going to lie there and—canoodle? Is this what our parties are going to be like, from now on?"

"This," Fen tells her, very seriously, "is a _really great party_."

Margo squints at her. Fen's still holding her hand, swinging it a little. "How many of the cakes did you eat?"

"Josh told me to stop after two," Fen says, "so—um, I only had a little of the fourth one, I think?"; and Eliot drops his head back onto Quentin's shoulder as he laughs.

"Fen, you probably want to tell him to give you a remedy phial for the morning," Quentin says, sounding—amused, but also equally sympathetic: _I mean_ , Margo thinks, _yeah, we've all been there_ ; as Fen plops down on the cushion in between Margo and Quentin's knees, saying, "I don't want to go anywhere! I've never been to a party like this before!" which, _yeah_ : half an hour ago Margo had walked by her making out with Rafe, pressed up against a window, which—good for her. Margo's not going to ask when the sloth gets involved. Eliot reaches out and pats Fen's knee, and Margo eyes him, sipping her drink.

"Hey, Fen," she says. "I think Avela was looking for you, earlier": and Fen's ears might as well perk up, at that one.

"Oh, where is she?" she asks, craning her neck around.

"She was out in the courtyard," Margo lies. Whatever, Fen wants to ride that one so badly it's visible basically from Earth, and everyone's been cycling in and out of the courtyard all night, for the fireworks. If it's not true now it will be eventually, probably.

"You're a bad woman," Quentin says, a little smudgily; and Margo rolls her eyes.

"Uh, no, I'm a fucking philanthropist," Margo corrects. "Fen's got moves. Avela deserves a little joy in her life, and if it comes in the form of—"

"When did you hook up with Fen?" Eliot asks, straightening, a very little.

Margo hasn't. "None of your business," she, smiling, replies.

Quentin laughs, a little awkwardly. "Now, children," he says, and reaches up for the ewer of whatever the hell it is that they're drinking: not wine, Margo knows, because Eliot's still taking some weird Fillorian magic mushroom-based mood stabilizer that Celi'd whipped up which apparently reacts badly with sulfites, but when Quentin leans forward to pass it to her, it is—definitely alcoholic. "Am I going to be violently ill if I mix this with the red?" she asks, wrinkling her nose; and Quentin shrugs.

"It's basically carbonated kiwi sangria," he says.

"That sounds fucking awful," she says, and fills up her goblet.

Eliot is watching her. "You don't have to stay with us, you know," he says, voice light. "If we're boring"; and Margo sighs, dropping her head back against the back of the chair, sprawling her legs out in front of her.

"Don't be a cock." She scratches the base of her goblet against her eyebrow, and then straightens. "Really, though," she asks. "Is this—this is what you want to do, now? Hang out drinking—this bullshit, and—what, _talking_?" 

Eliot looks down at his knees, but Quentin's mouth curves up, a little, just at the edge. "Well, I feel like we've barely even seen you," Quentin says, "since we got back."

She glares at him. It's not true. Quentin eats at least lunch or breakfast with her most days, to catch her up on his twelve thousand bureaucratic coordination assignments; and also he was in her room for like an hour and a half before the state dinner two nights ago, venting about the Crooked River beavers and helping her hold her hair in place while she did the setting spells, because Margo's new budget doesn't run to a ladies' maid; and the morning before that he'd sat in on petitions with her because Eliot had had therapy; and also yesterday Quentin'd convinced her to play hooky for an hour to just go sit up in the Winter Garden and be _quiet_ for a while: it'd been the best part of her day. Her—month, probably. Week, at least. And she and Eliot definitely—they do stuff. They hang out together. He's the one who always comes with her, when Margo goes to Earth, isn't he: _your honor guard_ , he'd said the first time, obviously at least 75% a joke, and after that, just—why would they need to talk about it? _Interfering dick_ , she thinks at Quentin, but Quentin's not a psychic, so he doesn't answer, just raises an eyebrow—so, she thinks. Maybe.

"You keep your kinky sex games to yourself," she says, finally, but as comebacks go, it's weak on a number of levels. She manages to look at Eliot, then, and—

—she can't read his expression.

She straightens up, looking back at Quentin.

"You know," she says, alight with vengeance. "Back when Eliot _wasn't_ m—iddle-aged and boring, I used to hook him up, on his birthday."

"Oh?" Quentin says, taking a sip of his terrible fucking tropical punch.

"I did," Margo says. "I was pretty good at it, too—I got him _very_ laid, didn't I, Eliot?"; and Eliot scoffs, as Quentin—

—lowers his goblet, obviously trying—and failing—not to smile. 

"You know, that is _so weird_ ," he says, very earnestly.

She raises her eyebrows."Oh yeah?" 

"Because _I_ used to get him laid for his birthday, too," Quentin says. "When we were—you know, _literally_ middle-aged, and not just—"

Margo lifts her glass. "Doesn't count if you're the one doing the laying, honey," she says, saluting him; and Quentin bursts into a real smile: dimples, dimples, dimples, as far as the eye can see.

"Well," he prevaricates, "not _just_ me"; and Margo settles back in her seat.

"I do not believe you," she tells him, "even a little—"

—and then, almost by accident, she looks at Eliot.

"—bit," she finishes. Momentum, mostly.

Eliot laughs, a little. Looking away. Rubbing at Quentin's knee: "Please, Bambi," he's saying, "old and boring doesn't mean he cares where I stick it"; and then he pauses, to take a long drink of his terrible sangria.

Margo shifts. Sits forward, a little. "I'm sorry," she says, "have you been _holding out_ on me? What've you been _doing_ , while I've been—running the country, or whatever—if you two've been tag-teaming Todd and not filming it for me," she says, "I'm gonna be mad."

Quentin starts laughing, and Margo sits back in her seat, glaring at him. "I mean," she says, with slow exaggeration, "if I'd known that hooking you up for your birthday was on the table—"

"No, no," Quentin says, a little breathlessly, "not—" just as Eliot stretches up a hand, saying, "Hi, hello, you, what's your name?" as he catches the fingers of a passing courtier: archivist, her brain supplies, a certain S. Elms, but she doesn't remember what the S stands for: a solid stocky man with dark curls and rather extraordinary green eyes.

"Um—Samid, Your Highness," looking down at Eliot, who smiles up at him.

"You know I'm not really a king anymore, right?" he says; and Samid smirks.

"I understand it to be a courtesy title," Samid murmurs, "and I would so hate to be discourteous": and oh, _fuck_ him, Margo thinks, irritated; because of course Eliot can grab the hand of some passing rando and have him ready to spread for him in less than a minute: Eliot is smiling up at Samid with that wide-open fuck-me-now smile and saying, "Hey—so, feel free to be as discourteous as you like, but it's his birthday, want to kiss me?" and Quentin— _Quentin_ , their little Quentin who can barely even _talk_ about sex without turning seventeen different shades of red and twitching until someone changes the subject, is just fucking—relaxing back. Watching.

"Is this an Earth tradition?" Samid asks, looking over to Quentin, who gives him a tiny smile and then says, "No. But it's—pretty great, if you want to"; and Samid looks back down, then bends down. Quentin's thighs spread, either side of Eliot's sides, as Eliot leans up between his bent-up knees, and kisses Samid.

It looks— _easy_ , is the first thing she thinks; and then— _hot_ , yes, "hot" definitely does come to mind: Quentin's eyes, dark; lips just parted: watching Samid's long lashes fluttering against the tops of his cheeks while Eliot twines up their fingers as they kiss. When Samid straightens back up, he looks right to Quentin, who just hands Samid the ewer of Electric Green Death By Cotton Candy, half-smiling, and Eliot twists back, leaning up just enough to kiss Quentin on the jaw: _Yeah_ , Margo thinks, resigned, _leave 'em alone for four minutes, and they're definitely gonna fuck in the bean-bag chairs_.

"Was that to your liking?" Samid is asking Quentin. Hip cocked; and Quentin raises an eyebrow and says, "Was it to yours?"; to which Samid throws back his head and laughs, then fucks off with their ewer.

"He stole your special booze," Margo notes.

"It was almost empty," Quentin says, just as Eliot's reaching over Quentin's thigh for his cup.

Eliot looks at Margo.

Saying nothing, as he takes a sip.

"Okay," Margo says, deciding. "You want to watch Eliot kiss boys for your birthday, who'm I to ruin the dream"; and then she twists: reaching out over the back of her bean-bag chair into _another_ circle of cushions and bean-bag chairs, so she can tap Kiallen Friendly on the shoulder. Kiallen, a not-inaccurately-last-named visiting troubadour who's been hanging around Whitespire to hitch rides back and forth to Earth all month—she has it on good authority (Kady) that he's developing a real taste for Broadway and that also someone's liable to murder him for it (also Kady)—is also hot, and—flexible, so— "Hey, do you want to make out for a while?" Margo asks. She's already defined Earth terms, with Kiallen, so— "With him," she clarifies, nodding to Eliot, "not with me."

Leaning up over Margo's bean-bag chair, Kiallen gives Eliot an unconvinced up-down that Margo enjoys, frankly, probably more than she ought. "Hm," he says. "Here?"

"It's his birthday," Eliot explains, tucking a hand around Quentin's ankle. "Margo's giving him nice things"; which makes Kiallen laugh, so—there, then. He's pretty clearly in to give it a shot, at least.

"Well, let's see how it goes," Kiallen says, climbing up over Margo's bean-bag and over to sit—cross-legged, knee-to-knee—in the little wedge of floor between her and Eliot, looking at him thoughtfully for a moment, before leaning in to brush their mouths together: once. Twice.

"Hm," Kiallen says. "No spark." He looks up at Quentin, then, considering; but Eliot says, "Well, it was a nice thought—and nope, not happening," as Quentin's mouth curves up, a very little bit, and he rubs a hand through Eliot's hair. Tugging his head back, as Eliot arches up under his fingers.

"All right," Kiallen is saying, unfolding himself from the floor; "and not with you?" he asks Margo.

Quentin is sliding down a little, bending his head down to—whisper in Eliot's ear, or kiss the side of his throat: she can't completely see what they're doing, but it's obviously—good for Eliot, who looks back over at her with his eyes dark and glittering, cheeks flushed, lips parted—

"No," Margo says. "Not. Right now"; and Eliot watches her, as Kiallen leaves. His eyes slipping half-shut, as Quentin's hand slides splaying down over Eliot's chest: Eliot swallows, very visibly.

"Another?" Margo asks. Smiling: and Eliot shifts, looking up at Quentin.

"Your call," Quentin says, so low that Margo barely hears him; and then Eliot kisses him, once, lips parted.

"All right," Eliot says, looking at Margo. "Do your worst."

Margo looks around. "Hey!" she calls, "Penny!"

"Oh, no," Quentin mumbles, sliding down, flushing; as Penny comes over: he's got a goblet in either hand.

"Have you seen Kady?" he asks.

"Making out with Julia," Margo lies, just to watch him have to reboot, slowly. "Hey, can you do me a favor?"

"Margo," Quentin says, warningly.

"Ten bucks says Waugh can't blow your mind," Margo says, nodding; and Eliot—Eliot, of course, who would rather die than turn down a dare, drawls, "I'll make it fifty if you come sit in my lap," waggling his eyebrows absurdly; and Penny—who always has been a pretty good sport—takes one look at Quentin's face and bursts out laughing.

"Happy birthday?" Penny asks, and Quentin folds his hands over his face; but he—actually shocking Margo, for conceivably the first time ever— _actually nods_ , then squints up at him, scarlet; and Penny says, "All right, you fucking freak," not wholly unaffectionately, "hold our drinks," then folds himself down awkwardly to perch in Eliot's lap, before giving him what is, objectively, the least erotic tongue-kiss Margo has ever seen in her life. Quentin, however, squirming in his seat, does not appear to mind. 

"All right," Penny says, straightening up. "There you go, one for the spank bank—Eliot, my brother, let's never do this again"; and Eliot starts laughing again, while Quentin hands back Penny's drinks, patently unable to look Penny in the eye.

"That was mean," Eliot says, to Margo, looking pleased, while rubbing the back of Quentin's knee.

"Tell me that again later when you're reaping the rewards," Margo says, nodding at him, as Quentin tips Eliot's chin up, bending nearly in half to kiss him. It's—sweet, sort of, or whatever you call it while Quentin puts his entire fucking body into communicating _take me, take me now_ with his tongue; and then Eliot brushes his nose against Quentin's nose, barely, as they part. Then Eliot settles back between Quentin's legs, sliding his hands over Quentin's knees, looking over at her, placid: from all the red-faced squirming going on over there Margo is about ninety percent sure that Quentin's rubbing his dick against Eliot's back while he does it, but who is she to judge?

Margo tosses back the last of her terrible fizzing distilled-hangover cola. "Baladen," she calls, beckoning to one of the more overeager pages, who comes trotting directly over. "Can you talk to Josh, and find out what the two of them've been drinking, and tell the kitchens to send up another pitcher?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Baladen squeaks, and scrambles off; and Margo looks back at Quentin, still in all his dumb fucking flowers, with all Eliot slouched back between his legs: Eliot is—looking at her. He's a little pink: drunker than he should be, probably, but if Celi expected perfection they'd've tossed her back to Earth months ago; and Quentin's fingers are slipping back through Eliot's hair, while Eliot looks at her, with that face that she doesn't remember how to read: Margo swallows.

"Another, Q?" she asks, looking up at him; and Quentin hums a question, winding up his fingers to tug at Eliot's hair.

"Bring to me all your finest palace advisors and mid-level military officials," Eliot says, spreading his arms, "and I shall show them some more of this Earth thing called kissing," as Quentin giggles, then looks around. 

"Hey, um—hello, hi, hello," he says, to about seven passing youths, all but one of them over six feet and absolutely every single one of them dressed to understudy a Fillorian production of _Cabaret_ remixed by David Bowie and staged by Oscar Wilde: _Well_ , Margo thinks, wry, _can't say he doesn't have a type_. Finally Eliot takes pity on him and just catches one by the hand, flashing up a brilliant, sun-warm white smile, and asks, "Hi, do you want to kiss me?"

He does. He offers Quentin one, too, but Quentin just flushes under his slipping flower crown, shoulders hunching, while Eliot slaps the guy on the ass to nudge him on his way; then reaches out to claim the hand of a passing fire-dancer. The fire-dancer, for his part, gives Eliot a shimmying, half-joking lapdance while Quentin bites at his own bottom lip, watching: Eliot and the fire-dancer both laughing at him as Baladen comes back with a new pitcher. Margo goes through another full glass of the stuff while Eliot is making out with, in rapid succession, a naval lieutenant (Quentin's suggestion), a visiting Brakebills postgrad (Margo's), and then—"He's my _staff_ "; "No he's not, he's _Margo's_ staff"—the Captain of the Palace Guard. By the time Fen comes back from the courtyard, clearly stoned off her tits and fucking _delighted_ with it, Eliot is so relaxed Margo thinks Quentin's probably not even going to need to lube up—and then Eliot pulls Fen down into his lap, and cups her face before kissing her: once, lips parted, half her hair wound up in his hands.

"Hello," Eliot murmurs, when she pulls back, looking more than a little bit breathless with it; and then Fen leans in, opening, and kisses him back: warm, and open, and wet. Twining her arms around his neck. And then Quentin ducks his head down, whispering something against the back of Eliot's ear, and Eliot moans a little, shuddering as he slides his hands down Fen's back: "I think—we'd better stop," Eliot tells her, and then laughs, a little, rueful; and Fen glances up at Quentin, then flushes very, very red and clambers up to her feet, says, "Um—happy birthday, Quentin"; and then basically the instant she's darted away from them, Quentin grabs Eliot's chin pulling his head back to kiss him, Eliot reaching a hand up to grab at his face, fingers splaying between them so that—

—so that—

_But_ , a part of Margo is protesting, _I can't see your_ mouth—

—just as Quentin shifts, just pressing their faces together, breathing deep; and then Eliot—

—rubs his own hand down his stomach. Shifting, as he does.

His eyes are closed. He's—hard, very hard, and it's very very obvious, in those pants, and Margo is— _angry_ with him, she's so fucking—

—and then she looks up, to Quentin: with his mouth tucked against the back of Eliot's ear. Watching her.

Margo swallows. "All right," she says. "Another?" Not looking away.

"Whatever Eliot wants," Quentin says, very quietly. Not looking away, either; and Margo looks at Eliot. Who is, with some difficulty, apparently, opening his eyes.

Margo smiles at him. It feels wrong. Her cheeks tight. "Thai food?" she asks; and Eliot swallows, visibly, and then says, "Why the fuck not?"; and Margo turns her face up, reaching out for a hand, and catches—Belinda, the Witch of the White Woods (a ceremonial title), who's nerd buddies with Quentin and also as far as Margo knows a lesbian, but Margo tells Eliot, "Her back": as Eliot is already drawing his huge hands down the sensitive bared freckled skin running down the open back of Belinda's heavy green dress while she moans and squirms and Eliot licks at her throat: behind him Quentin red-faced and wet-mouthed, pulling at Eliot's hair: which is—which is probably, Margo is thinking, where things start getting—a little out of hand: Margo taking Belinda by the chin and pulling her face up for a kiss while Belinda is stumbling back over to her, sliding a hand along Margo's skirts, pushing them down between her thighs and— "No," Margo gasps, "wait, I have to—" and so Belinda stops, just pressing hot and pliable against Margo's right side, nuzzling at her shoulder while Margo gets the attention of Ilania del Mar, who's the assistant potions mistress at Order of the Black Plains and who has got—literally—the best tits Margo's ever touched in her entire life; Eliot doesn't seem to have very many objections, either: kissing Ilania hot and wet and open-mouthed with his thumb rubbing circles around her nipple peaked through the front of her gown while Belinda kisses the crest of Margo's shoulder and Quentin—and Quentin's hand—

"Fuck," Eliot gasps, breaking away from Ilania, shuddering: twisting back up to kiss Quentin while Quentin's hand is sliding down the back of Eliot's collar, his thumb on his throat—

—and then Quentin looks up, looks _at Margo_ ; and Margo straightens and gently pushes Belinda away.

"Um—sorry," she says. "I—tomorrow, maybe? I—not tonight"; because Quentin is watching her and Eliot is rubbing his face over Ilania's collarbones, kissing the base of her throat and then lifting his face up: looking glazed, half-stunned; and so Margo— 

—Margo claps her hands together.

"Okay!" she says. Bright. "Okay, let's break it up, we've—" _already done this once and it was a fucking terrible idea_ , she is thinking, heart pounding; as Ilania is pulling her gown back up the dark slopes of her shoulders, smiling at Eliot; "We probably shouldn't fuck on the ceremonial bean bag chairs," she decides; and Iliana starts laughing, staggering up to her feet; and takes Belinda by the hand. They make it—maybe eighteen feet away, falling down against—one of the heaps of cushions, that the staff'd strewn everywhere inside: Belinda's thighs parting while Iliana pushes her skirts up because it's too late, obviously: because everywhere Margo looks, someone's got their hands down someone else's pants: oh God, Margo is thinking, a little bit desperately, the _staff_ : not including Tick, of course, who's leaning back against the foot of a fainting sofa, looking totally blissed out while one of the lutists is busily strumming away—literally—above him; or the two of the off-duty guards from the academy who are full-on fucking maybe a yard and a half past him, the blond braced heavily on his hands and knees.

"Oh, good," Margo says, and laughs. "Great, tomorrow's just going to be—awkward morning-afters and cleaning bills— _fuck_ ": as she pushes up to her feet; and "Wait," Quentin says, grabbing her hand. 

Margo swallows.

He's looking up at her, dark-eyed red-mouthed; and Margo—

—isn't sure about a lot, but she is, actually, absolutely one thousand percent sure that Quentin Coldwater does not want to fuck her. 

He takes a breath. Still looking up at her: God, _screw_ him; she thinks, resentment building up under her ribs: "What about—one more," Quentin says, and then tugs, a very little, so that Margo has to catch herself on Eliot's shoulder, her foot—sliding— "Just," Quentin is saying, still staring up at her with that cracked-open please-please- _please_ expression, _damn_ him, as he tells Margo, "just one more kiss, for luck"; and Margo drags her gaze, with some difficulty to Eliot. Still lying back between Quentin's arms and legs, his head nearly level with her tits as he is looking up at her with that dark, hot, glittering expression: obviously rock-hard under his half-open trousers, with—with his shirt collar already half-open under her hand—mouth parted—

"Yeah," Margo says, finally. Unmoving. "If Eliot—"

—but Eliot's hands are already sliding up under the back of her skirts, pulling at her, as heart pounding in her throat mouth opening, Margo folds herself down into his lap.


End file.
